


Cheerful Silence

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Sign Language, Blind Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Good Deucalion, M/M, Mute Stiles, No Alpha Pack, Scott is a Bad Friend, art teacher deucalion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-07-24 02:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7489056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a mute who feels invisible without his voice, until he meets Deucalion who doesn't need to see or hear him to know what he wants. </p><p>  <i>If only he could <i>speak</i>. Stiles watched with helpless eyes as the man carried on his way. No amount of hand waving or gesturing could convey what he wanted to say to the man who could not see it. So Stiles did the only thing he could think to do and rushed directly into the mans path. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is mute in this fic. Every time he signs something it's written with ' ' as opposed to someone talking normally, which is “ “. He uses ASL and fingerspelling primarily throughout the story, but for simplicity sake I wrote what he's meaning to say and not a direct translation of his words from ASL.

In all his life Stiles had never felt so completely helpless, so incapable of making his opinion known. His father said he opened his mouth one day as a toddler and never shut it again. Even his arms were always moving, his fingers fidgeting, feet tapping, always moving always _communicating_. Except for now. Like a ghost he stood on the muddied street. He wanted to scream and shout, but the few rasping vocalizations he could make wouldn't help. The blind mans cane tapped along the broken sidewalk in a ritualistic pattern. He walked ever closer to a newly developed pothole, oblivious to the impending danger. 

Stiles needed to warn him, needed to correct his mistake, needed to urge him onto a different route before he got himself hurt. His desire to scream manifested in the form of hands tightly curling into fists. 

If only he could _speak_. Stiles watched with helpless eyes as the man carried on his way. No amount of hand waving or gesturing could convey what he wanted to say to the man who could not see it. So Stiles did the only thing he could think to do and rushed directly into the mans path. 

The blind man stopped when his cane tapped lightly against Stiles leg. He frowned and tried to step around him. _No._ Stiles thought. He tapped rapidly on the mans shoulder. Much as he didn't want the man walking into a puddle he wanted him to walk out into traffic even less. 

“Hello?” The man asked in a light, foreign voice. His brows knitted together in confusion. His eyes were invisible behind the dark lens of his glasses, but Stiles still got the feeling he was being starred at in a rather intrusive manner. 

He hesitated for just a moment. The man was very attractive, and generally speaking people often didn't like to be grabbed suddenly by strangers and dragged down the street. Yet, he considered this to be a matter of utmost importance. He swallowed down the tiny pit of nervousness and lightly touched the mans hand. 

The man looked down at him, just missing his hand by an inch. He seemed surprised, but not alarmed. A little more confident Stiles began to gently tug him away. He was surprised when the man complied with little resistance. They walked around the puddle easily, the man continuing to tap his cane along the ground and keep hold of Stiles hand. Stiles released him once the puddle had been circumvented. 

Despite his compliance – or perhaps in spite of – he seemed positively perplexed. 

“What are you doing, exactly? I hope you aren't trying to rob me,” the man said dryly. “Not because I have an objection to thievery but it's rather tasteless to take advantage of the blind, don't you think? Surely you haven't run out of old ladies and babies with candy yet, have you? It's a big city.” 

Stiles shook his head rapidly, but of course, it went unnoticed. He could have screamed if he had the vocal power to do so. _No!_ he wanted to shout, he would never do something like that. His father was a police officer for Christs sake. 

The man didn't move all the while Stiles had his internal monologue. His usual method of communication consisted of frantic jerking motions and muddled American Sign Language. Even if the man – by some miracle – did know ASL Stiles himself didn't know any words for 'puddle.' Only 'wet' and 'big.' An idea popped into his head at that. He hopped on one foot excitedly and tapped the older mans palm. 

Somehow understanding the blonde spread his fingers and lay his bare hand open. Stiles traced the word 'wet' into his skin. It was warm, unnaturally, wonderfully warm. It reminded him of a werewolf, but how could a werewolf ever go blind with all their strength and regeneration? It was a stupid thought, he shook it from his head. 

“Wet?” the man said. His confused look doubled. Stiles took his other hand and raised it so it was on level with the hand Stiles already held. He spread them apart so they were making a wide box-shape. He dropped the left one, and retraced the word ‘wet.’

The man looked back towards where he’d been standing. His face was unreadable for a second, but then he smiled a brilliant, shining smile. “. . . Ah,” he said, the pieces coming together. “There was a puddle?” he asked. “A big puddle?” Stiles nodded. He clasped the mans hand into a fist and shook it up and down in a sort of nod. 

“What a polite young man you are,” he said in a pleased voice. “I suppose I should thank you properly. What is your name?” 

Stiles sighed soundlessly as the man smiled at him. The tension and anxiety fled his body with the knowledge that he wouldn't be accused of anymore nefarious deeds. He slowly traced the letters. 

“Stiles? What is a stiles?” 

_Me_. Stiles traced. The mans lips ghosted a smile. 

“Can you talk, stiles?” Stiles traced a solitary _N._

“Ah, well thank you, Stiles.” 

He nodded, even though it would go unseen and started to smile back. He felt good about himself. It had been a long time since he'd had a conversation with a stranger. 

“Seeing as you're so helpful, would you mind playing the role of seeing eye dog for a little while longer? There is an art supply store down the street from here I've been wanting to visit. I was going to go today, but it looks like the trip may be more hazardous than I thought.” The man motioned back towards the puddle. He smiled and Stiles heart went into a tailspin once more. 

He grinned back and nodded vigorously. He knew the art store, he bought lots of sketchbooks and graph paper there. Sketchbooks were also good for communication. Mostly he just used them to doodle in class. More importantly, he hadn't been invited _anywhere_ in a very long time. He didn't care that it was just an errand. The man wasn't bothered in the slightest by his muteness, and he wanted to _go somewhere_ with him. 

“Excellent.” The man said when Stiles shook his hand, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He flashed another warm smile. 

_Name?_ Stiles asked him in his unique manner. His hand movements were giddy as he signed the letters. 

“My name is Deucalion. You can call me-,” he paused. “Well I suppose you can’t call me anything, but, you can think of me as Deuc.” There was a nearly invisible wink from behind the glasses. 

Stiles suppressed a laugh. He was liking his new friend more and more by the minute. He held out his arm and Deuc, -somehow already knowing- grasped it firmly and they began their short walk to the store. 

The art store was only a few blocks away, with fortunately no more potholes to disrupt their journey. The door opened with a soft 'ding' of the bell ringing as they entered. 

The cashier at the counter looked up from his magazine and sighed. 

“How is it that I always hear you before I see you?” Danny asked. He had short, black hair in small curls, and deep brown eyes just a shade darker than Stiles. Danny wasn't exactly scowling, but there was no smile on his face either. He kept looking nervously at the delicate displays set up around the shop. Delicate displays Stiles toppled more than once trying to explain things he didn't know the word for. 

Stiles hands moved at a quick pace. 

“Friend? He's your friend- Oh, _new_ friend?” Stiles nodded and gave a thumbs up. Of all the people he knew Danny was one of the few who bothered learning sign language, though he claimed it was only so Stiles could introduce him to all the cute deaf kids at the academy. Stiles was happy either way. It made him feel just a little less invisible. It was a good thing he'd always been good at making himself noticed. He finger spelled the mans name. 

“D-U-K-E?” Danny looked over at Deucalion, who'd been left standing by a shelf of water colors. He smiled, though the man wouldn't see it. 

“D-E-U-C, actually.” The blonde corrected and bobbed his head politely. “And you are . . .?”

“Danny. You could say I'm Stiles friend, but that wouldn't really be accurate.” Stiles mimed being stabbed through the heart. He dramatically grasped at his chest and reached his hand up towards the sky. Then fell onto the ground with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Deuc jumped as he thudded against the floor. 

“Is he alright?” he asked. “It sounded-” 

“He's pretending to be dead. My words killed him. They do that a lot.” 

“Oh, I see.” Stiles squinted an eye open to see if anyone was paying attention to his performance. Danny hadn't even bothered to glance at him. 

“I apologize for his behavior. He thinks even less than he speaks.” Stiles made a sign with his hand that even those who didn't know sign language could understand. _Fucker,_ he thought with a grin, propping himself back up onto his elbows. 

Deuc smiled at the pair. “He's actually been rather enjoyable company. Minus the death.”

Stiles stood and puffed out his chest in pride. He childishly stuck his tongue out at Danny. 

Danny rolled his eyes. “He's okay, I guess. Just don't feed him or he'll never stop pestering you. Was there something you came here for- other than Stiles being Stiles?”

Deucalion nodded. “Noted. I actually came here for some clay?” 

“Down isle three, to the left of the canvases. Do you need any help?”

“I'm sure Stiles here is more than capable of navigating. Thank you, though,” the man nodded in his ever polite fashion. Stiles stood and held out his arm before Deucalion even had to ask. Appreciatively Deuc took it and let him guide them both carefully through the rows of supplies. 

He stopped in front of the small selection and stood there. Then, realized that he didn't know what kind Deuc was looking for. He thought of getting Danny again, but before he could Deuc was running his hand lightly over the packages. 

“Is this one red?” he asked, pausing over a wrapped brick. Stiles tapped yes and then, a little cautiously tapped his cane and then his hand. He drew a question mark on the back of the mans palm.

“Ah, my sight tends to . . . come and go?” Stiles drew another question mark. “It just does.” There was some sadness behind the words. He gripped his cane just a little tighter, his eyebrows angled downwards. Sensing this was the end of the road he dropped the subject. He would have given a similar answer if someone asked how he became mute. 

'How many?' he asked. 

“Could you grab two for me? Thank you again, Stiles.” The sadness was gone by the end of his sentence. Stiles picked up two and held them to his chest, surprised by how heavy they actually were. “They're ten pound blocks, so please be careful.” Stiles grunted. That would have been nice to know before he picked them up. 

“I hate to ask, but would you mind being my guide for just a while longer, and help me back to my flat? I can give you directions.” Stiles took the mans hand again and moved it up and down in a nodding manner. “Excellent. Please try not to die on the way there.” 

For the first time in a long time Stiles felt both seen and heard. Maybe it was because Deucalion knew what it was like to lose a sense, but he made him feel like he wasn't missing anything at all. He held his arm out and waited for Deucs fingers to grasp onto it. 

They purchased the bricks and Stiles walked him home, carrying the bag of art supplies pressed to his chest like a precious object.

Deucs building wasn't too far from his own. It was a little place, but nice and relatively quieter than some of the other areas in New York. They hovered in the doorway for just a moment while Deuc took the key out of his pocket and unlocked it.

“You've been exceedingly helpful today.” Deuc said as he took the bricks from Stiles arms. “I'm going to make you a present, alright?”Stiles nodded, then remembering took Deucs hand and nodded it up and down. 

'Yes!' he signed. 

“Good, I look forward to seeing you again soon.” Deucalion smiled and squeezed his hand. Then he was gone, leaving Stiles on the doorway, giddy over his new found friendship.


	2. Chapter 2

“You look like a puppy waiting for your master.” Lydia said as she dropped into the plush armchair across from Stiles, brushing her strawberry blonde locks from her face. “I miss back when you used to only have those eyes for me.” Her pink lips pushed out in a berry-scented pout. 

Stiles looked from the window and fluttered his eyes at her. 

'There's still a chance for you to change your mind about me,' he signed. Lydia laughed and understood his meaning instantly. She had taken to sign language like a fish to water, but that was just Lydia Martins way. She took to everything - even running her own business - without struggle or strife. Well, except maybe for being a banshee. 

She'd opened the place with a loan from her parents and determination a mile long. Within a year her cafe was one of the most popular in the area, and toting itself as being both deaf and blind friendly hadn't hurt in the slightest.

It was Stiles favorite place in the whole world. The customers didn't look at him oddly when he used his hands instead of his words, and he'd always been such a regular that his order was usually made before he got to the counter. 

“I don't think so, pumpkin. Whosoever has stolen your heart clearly deserves it.” She looked out the window Stiles had practically glued himself to over the past few days. “Still waiting?” 

Stiles nodded. He didn't understand, Deucalion should have been there by now. Maybe he started avoiding the street because of the pothole, but if that were true how would he ever find him again? He couldn't just show up at the mans apartment, but every day it seemed like a more and more viable option. Anxiety rotted away in the back of his brain. Maybe Deuc decided the effort wasn't worth the friendship. Maybe he'd just been using him to get something done. 

“Scott said you think he might be a werewolf?” 

Stiles shrugged, the words distracted him from the mounting pain in his chest. 

'Just a theory. He's too warm. Deaton is looking into it.' His distrust of the veterinarian had lessened some since he managed to keep his vocal cords from becoming completely mangled, and fixed the horrible problem of having his throat torn open. Having someone hold your life literally in their hands did wonders to build a trusting relationship.

“Well that's hardly evidence. People who have the flu are too warm.” Lydia pointed out, stealing a small piece of bread off of Stiles bagel. She always complained she watched her calories, but apparently she didn't watch the ones that came from Stiles plate. He smiled a little. 

'It's not just that. It's a feeling. I feel like he's a wolf.'

“You also accused your mailman of being a werewolf because you thought he delivered the mail too fast.” 

'He's a were- _something_ , I know it!' He didn't actually know a sign for cheetah, so he made up for it by moving his hands quickly in a running motion. 

“Alright, alright. Don't break your wrist over it, sweetheart.” 

Stiles sighed and looked back out the window, propping his head up on his elbow. He caught a flash of dirty blonde hair out of the corner of his eye. He stood from the chair and tapped Lydias shoulder, pointing outside towards the figure. 

“Oh,” she said, standing and pressing her face to the glass to get a better look. 

Deucalion walked down the street with his cane in one hand, a small paper bag in the other. He easily side-stepped the pothole and continued his walk towards the small park on the other side of the road. Stiles turned back to Lydia. 

'That's him! That's him!' he was too excited not to fumble his sign as he pointed the man out. He smacked himself in the face a little too hard, which caused Lydias lips to twitch. 

“He's pretty good looking,” she commented. “I approve. Don't keep him waiting too long, go charm him with your winning smile!” She gave him an encouraging pat on the back and shove towards the door. 

Stiles didn't need to be told twice. He practically skipped as he weaved between the pedestrians. He caught up with Deucalion at the park, where the man was sitting on a bench with his cane in his lap and several pigeons at his feet. Stiles braced himself against his knees and wheezed from the physical exertion. His athleticism had greatly declined since high school, not that it had ever been great. 

“Ah, is that Stiles I hear rasping next to me?”

Stiles grimaced and patted his shoulder in greeting. He collapsed down onto the bench. 

'Where?' he traced on the back of Deucalions hand. He noticed the small paper bag was nowhere to be seen, but the hand that had held it was still clasping onto something tight. 

“I'm sorry. I know I haven't been in the usual places, but I was busy.” The man turned his hand palm up. His slender fingers gently uncurled around the object to reveal a tiny, clay hummingbird. The bird rested easily in his hand with its wings outspread in a magnificent sweep of tiny white feathers. 

“It took me a while to get all the smaller details, but I think it came out quite good. Go on, take it,” he encouraged. 

Stiles delicately picked up the bird, holding it close to his face to examine it. The feathers, eyes, legs, and beak, every square inch of the bird was intricately detailed. Every individual feather was lined and flowed so smoothly into the next he could almost believe they were real. He ran his index finger lightly down the birds glossy back. 

“I wanted to make something that reminded me of you, but I'm not too good at making Labradors,” the man joked. “Hummingbirds move around a lot, so it seemed appropriate.” 

'It's for me?' Stiles asked. He placed the bird gently into his lap while he traced. It was so beautiful and delicate.

“Of course it's for you, my wonderful helper.” 

Stiles beamed. He would have thrown his arms around the man in a hug if he weren't so scared of dropping the delicate figure. He ran his finger from the tip of the beak down to the lengthy tail fathers. A light layer of red crossed his cheeks as he touched it. His heart began to swell. 

“I take it you like it?” 

Stiles seized the mans hands and clapped them together to show his enthusiasm. Then he curled one into a fist and nodded it vigorously.

“Excellent,” Deucalion smiled his widest smile. “I was hoping you would approve.” Behind the glasses his eyes sparkled with amusement. 

'Beautiful,” Stiles traced. 'Love.' Deucalion chuckled.

“Quite the young flatterer. Oh, I did something else this week, too.” Deucalion turned his hands so they were palm up again and flexed his fingers. “This means 'many' doesn't it?” Then he took his index finger and wagged it to the side of his face. “And this means 'where'? I looked up an audio version of a sign language class. I think I have all the letters right, except for Q, that one was a little harder to understand.” Stiles watched with wide-eyed wonder as Deucalion held his hand and began to repeat the letters of the alphabet.

“I listened to an article that said you could communicate better by finger spelling your words against my hands. Would that be easier for you then writing them on my palm?” 

Stiles just sat there for a second in bewildered – and forced – silence. He ran his hand once more over the little bird that must have taken hours, if not days to create. It didn't seem right that the man would do so much for him, spend so much of his time, just for the boy who helped him avoid a puddle.

'Why?' he signed. Instead of tracing the letters he gently spread Deucalions hand to form a singular 'y' instead. 

“Well I needed something to do while I finished your bird. I thought it might make things easier between us. You won't always have a friend around to interpret for you, and I'd rather know for myself anyways. You seem like an interesting young pers-”

Stiles paused only to place the bird safely in his pocket. Then he lunged up and threw his arms around Deucalions neck, displacing the cane from his lap. He hugged him tightly, only belatedly realizing that the gesture might not have been welcome. He couldn't help it, after going mute he learned just how few people in his life would stick by him during the hardships. No one ever wanted to talk to him anymore. Those who did were the rare few who knew him _before_ the accident, not after. He'd sort of given up on making new friends or building relationships. 

He realized, in those lonely moments when no texts came through on his phone that Danny, Lydia, and Scott would always be his closest friends. Deucalion wasn't even in the slightest bit deterred by him. Maybe it was because he knew what it felt like to be excluded. 

“Oh,” Deuc said in surprise. “Well you seem happy.” He lightly patted the boy on the back. “I forgot how tall you were. I really should have made a golden retriever, or border collie.” He ran his hand from Stiles back up to the nape of his neck and touched the tips of his hair. Stiles pulled away and Deucs hands left his body. Stiles pulled the hand back, letting him know it was okay for him to continue his exploratory touches. Deuc smiled a little and let his fingertips graze the side of his face. 

“You're very pretty Stiles. Your skin is very soft.” He mused as his fingertips lightly traced his jawline, from the edge of his ear down to his chin. He placed his hand gently against Stiles cheek. They were just as unnaturally warm as Stiles remembered. He couldn't help but lean into the touch a little. Deuc brushed his thumb over Stiles eyelid and his cheek. Then he ran his finger down the bridge of his nose. It was an odd feeling, but not unfriendly. 

“I do mean it, you know. You are very pretty. No one ever tells the pretty ones that. They save it all for the bitter spirits and their constant need for reassurance.” Stiles smiled, he actually hadn't ever been called pretty before. Deucalion brushed over his lips lightly. “Ah, you have a pretty smile, too.” 

'Come with me,' Stiles signed. 'I want to take you somewhere.' He regretted forcing Deuc to remove his hands from his face, but he had the sudden, strong desire to introduce him to Lydia. 

Deucs face fell a little. “As much as I enjoy being dragged off into the dark unknown, maybe that's an adventure that can wait another day? I've got a class to teach in an hour, and I'd really better start heading down to the college for setup.” 

Stiles frowned. 'Class?' 

“Yes. I teach sculpting at one of the local schools.” He thought for a second. “You should accompany me. Today we're making owls.”

Stiles thought of the beautiful bird he had tucked away in his jacket and looked to his clumsy hands. 'No talent. No patience.' 

“You don't need any talent. All you need is time.” Deucalion stood from the bench, scooping his cane up off of the ground. 

“Come now, Stiles.” He held his hand out. “I insist.” He flashed a warm, toothy smile. 

A small part of Stiles wanted to flee in the opposite direction, the other part of him wanted to run headlong into whatever task Deucalion put him too, if only to feel included again. 

He grabbed Deucs hand and let him pull him to his feet. 

“Do you know where the school is?” Stiles shook his hand. 

“Ah, for once I get to lead someone.” Deuc looked exceedingly pleased with the fact as they started their slow walk, the blind leading the mute. Stiles turned back and saw Lydia watching them from the window. He waved to her and she waved back. She looked happy as she watched them walk away. 

The college wasn't very far from the park, less than four blocks in fact.

Deucalion wasted no time as he led Stiles from the park bench and down the street, knowingly taking every turn and crossing every street without needing to ask for help, and he took pride in it. He pointed out landmarks, and the different types of birds they crossed, and what the different kinds of street vendors lined up and down the corners sold on different days. _That truck over there sells pies on Tuesday and cakes on Wednesday, but if you ask me her pies are much better than her cakes. The cakes are too dry, and who would want cake without tea anyways? Every day they sell cookies, I'm not one for sweet things, but the mint chocolate chip one always smells the best._

Stiles grinned and nodded his head as he was talked at. The man proudly pointed out fixtures, people, and places, with the same enthusiasm as Stiles had the day before, when he'd gotten to lead him to the art supply. 

“-and those, over there, making those rapturous sounds are European Starlings,” he explained, motioning towards the tree. Stiles squinted his eyes up towards the trees and noticed a few brown and black birds fluttering between the branches. “Do you know the story of how European Starlings became New York natives?”

Stiles traced an 'N' on the back of Deucs hand. 

“Then allow me to tell you about it. Back in the late 1800's a man named Eugene Schieffelin attempted to release all British birds mentioned in the works of Shakespear into New York city. His intentions – though romantic – were ill fated, as bull finches and skylarks just weren't made for this climate. The starlings, however, are not picky eaters.” Deucalion shrugged as he spoke. They reached the corner, and without waiting for Stiles to ask he pointed him in the proper direction, and they continued their walk. Stiles was a little impressed, he'd never met someone who could rattle on about any subject the same way he could. 

“Within fifty years the starlings spread to each of the fifty states, and along with them they spread disease, crop damage, and caused hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage to planes. Who would have guessed such a tiny little thing could cause so much destruction?” 

Stiles grimaced. He knew a lot about tiny things causing lots of destruction. 'That's a sad story,' he signed. 

“It is a sad story, but at least some good came of it. The starlings played a large part in the creation of acts and laws that would prevent importation of plants and animals that would harm the environment. We're here,”he said, stopping outside the front of a large building. Stiles looked up at the school. 

It was a large but narrow building made of white stone jutting from the corner of the street. It stood out from the rest of the buildings with it's large double-doors, seemingly too wide for the narrow space the building took up. 

“Be careful on your way up, the steps are rather steep.” Stiles took the steps two at a time and held the door open for Deuc as he reached the top. The mans lips curled into a small smile and he tipped his head towards his energetic friend. 

His classroom had a large, open floor plan with tables, chairs, canvases, easels, everything strewn about it in a haphazard pattern. The floor was polished to a healthy sheen, but every other surface in the room was coated with thick layers of colorful paint. It was a far cry from the refined, reserved person Deuc made himself out to be. But then again, the blind man probably didn't care much for color schemes. 

Stiles rather liked it. 

“Would you mind helping me set up? I'd like you to put a block of clay on each of the desks. About . . . ,” Deucalion thought, and then held up Stiles hand, he compared it with his own. “About palm-sized? Can you do that?” 

Stiles shook his hand vigorously in a nod and set about the task he'd been given. He took him a minute or two to figure out where everything was, while Deucalion patiently cleaned off his desk and set up the rest of the classroom. As Stiles finished putting down the last of the clay blocks a number of young, college-aged students like himself entered the room. They gave him curious looks as they took their places at their desks. Without being told they picked up the clay and started to knead it between their hands. 

“Class, this is Stiles.” Deucalion announced. “He's going to be my helper for the day.” 

“What about-?” one of the girls started to ask. Her hail was pulled back in a tight braid. Her hands danced over the tabletop, her lips in a tight frown. 

“Those of you who want extra credit can earn it by telling me when he makes a face,” Deuc answered knowingly. 

“He's making one right now. He looks like he swallowed a lemon.” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the blonde boy sitting towards the back of the class. He wondered if he'd get in trouble for forming a sign with his middle finger. 

Deucalion struggled to keep his smile in check. “Thank you, Cory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for such nice comments n.n they warm my little heart.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles eagerly followed each and every one of Deucalions instructions. He watched the man intently, focusing his eyes on his hands as he worked the clay into delicate shapes. His slender fingers molded and warped the object into intricate designs. 

He glanced around at the other students, some of them were struggling with the finer details, like the legs and the feathering, but they all at least had the basic shape down correctly. He wondered if it was too late to mush the owl back into a putty and start all over again. He'd already overworked his fingers so much they started to cramp, but he wanted it to look nice. Better than nice. He wanted it to be as lovely as the bird in his pocket was. He kept periodically checking on the figure, just to insure it was still safe there. 

“How are you doing?” Deuc asked, appearing over Stiles shoulder. He had no trouble navigating the room and checking on each and everyone of his students works, occasionally he paused and felt their works delicately with his hands, pausing to give some advice here or there. Stiles hung his head a little and bit his lip. When he didn't respond for several seconds Deuc held out his hand. 

“It can't be that bad. C'mon, let me have it.” 

With reluctance Stiles offered it up. He felt a little embarrassed as the man thumbed over the owls plump body and the duck-like beak. He'd done his best to follow the instructions, but his clumsy thumbs pressed the pathetic creature into a pear-shaped monstrosity with a drooping head. 

Deucs eyebrows raised in surprise, then they furrowed. “How did-? Why is it. . . . ? Oh Stiles,” he sighed. 

Stiles hung his head further, wishing he could just disappear into the floorboards. 

“I think you might have over kneaded it. That's alright, though, we-” 

“Stiles is upset,” a student shouted from the back of the room. Stiles looked up and glared at the girl, the same one who'd asked about extra credit earlier. She wasn't even paying attention to him anymore, focusing on her own, impeccable owl. 

“Thank you, Tiffany,” Deucalion said, sounding a little more than annoyed annoyed. He turned back to the solemn boy before him. 

“I didn't mean to upset you, Stiles,” he said quietly. “It's really not bad for your first attempt. Your owl is very . . . unique,” he said, the smile returning to his lips. “Just like you.” 

'Should I fix it?' Stiles signed.

Deuc paused. “Only if you're unhappy with it. It's a little flawed, but it's still yours. You aren't the type of person to get rid of something just because it's flawed, are you?” The mans hand lightly patted his shoulder. He had a feeling they weren't really talking about his owl anymore. “Besides, it'd be a shame to destroy your first creation.” 

The little lumpy thing was placed back in his hands. He peered down at its pathetic face with his lopsided beak, pear body, and eyes that barely fit on his head. It didn't look anything like the model Deuc set up on his desk, but Deuc was right, it was his. It was his, and he wouldn't abandon it just because it was strange. 

'I want to keep it,' he signed. 

Deuc grinned brilliantly. “Wonderful. Then we can let it dry, and next time you're here you can paint it.” 

_Next time?_ Stiles looked at his clock. It was almost nine p.m. He'd been working on his little figurine for almost four hours. 

'Is class almost over? Can I take you somewhere after this?'

“Unfortunately, today wouldn't be a good time,” Deuc said sadly. “I have some preexisting obligations, but, I'd love to meet you for whatever it is another day? Perhaps you could give me your cellphone number so I could call you? Then you won't have to wait around for me to show up.”

Stiles nodded his hand enthusiastically. He was okay with waiting to introduce Deuc to Lydia for a little while if it meant he was assured another visit with his new friend.

“Teachers got a boyfrieeeend,” a student in the back whispered. Stiles raised his hand in a less than appropriate gesture. 

“Stiles just flipped someone off!” Tiffany shouted with indignation coloring her shrill voice. She glared at the snickering pair in the corner .

“Stiles wouldn't do something like that,” Deuc said. Behind his sunglasses Stiles thought he saw a wink. 

They exchanged cell numbers and Stiles put his owl up on the rack to dry. He deliberately turned the little clay creature away from all the rest. Maybe he was over-empathizing, but he didn't want the lopsided thing to feel self-conscious while he was gone. 

Once the last of Deucalions class had cleaned up and waved goodbye they started their walk home together. The sun had already set, but the constant lights of New York City lit their way. The moon was high in the sky and completely full. It cast pale ghostly reflections down the sides of the buildings numerous windows. 

'The moon is full,' Stiles signed. He looked up at his companion. The man hummed but shown absolutely no sign of being affected by it, which poked a pretty large hole in his 'Deucalion is a werewolf' theory. Then again, Scott wasn't affected by it either. At least not much. 

“Is it?” he asked. “Must be a pretty sight for you.” 

'Do you like the full moon?' 

“No more so than I like any other lunar event. Do you like the moon?”

'Sometimes,' Stiles answered honestly. 

“It was lovely having you today, Stiles,” Deucalion said as they stopped outside the door to his apartment building. 

'I had fun. Thanks for inviting me.' He tried to think back to the last time he'd been invited anywhere and came up short.

“Well, I suppose this is goodnight.” Deucalions slender fingers closed around his own. He lifted his hand up to his face and kissed him gently on the back of his palm. Stiles felt his face heating up and his ears turning red. 

When Deucalion smirked and disappeared behind the door Stiles did a happy little jig out on the sidewalk where no one who could see would care. 

* 

It was hard to focus on anything else with thoughts of Deuc clouding his mind. The kiss to his hand sent his heart fluttering like he'd regressed back to a fifteen year old. It was old school, but Stiles couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The phantom feeling of warm lips lingered on his skin. 

A part of his mind, the most evil part, whispered in his ear that Deuc only felt bad for him and nothing else. It was unlikely, Deuc was blind after all, but that didn't satiate the sadistic part of his brain. The man was smart, successful, had a career whilst Stiles had nothing. He was a speck of dirt that could be wiped away and no one would hear him scream. 

He bit his lip and brushed the thoughts from his mind, choosing instead to focus on the clay in his hands. He molded it carefully, paying close attention to the youtube video on screen. He was already halfway through one of the red packaged blocks. Deucs class wasn't until the next night, but he wanted to make sure he didn't look so horribly inadequate ever again. He was making a little improvement, just a little. His owls were looking less and less like chickens and ducks by the minute. 

A tap at his window made Stiles hands clench, his thumbs dug unwillingly into the belly of his bird, effectively ruining the closest thing he'd come to an actual owl shape. With an annoyed grunt he turned around to see Scott standing on the fire escape. He smiled sheepishly and held up a plastic bag. Stiles wiped his hands on the towel to clean them off before opening the window. 

“Thanks,” Scott said, wearing his bright, characteristic grin as he climbed through. “I brought some stuff from Deaton. He said it's herbs, tea, and some type of special honey that should help your throat.” He motioned towards the desk with his hand. “Sorry I freaked you out.” 

'It's okay,' he signed, taking the plastic bag. He rifled around inside, finding more of the usual stuff. A good thing, too, he was almost out of his tea. He put the box on his bedside table and set the rest in the drawer. 

“Uh, he also said something else.” Scott shifted around a little, placing his hands in his hoodie pocket and looking towards the door. “He said that if you were talking more, your throat wouldn't hurt as much. He said it won't heal if you don't practicing using it.” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. 

“Please, Stiles? I know you're self-conscious, but talking is _good_ for you. It would _help_ you.” Stiles probably would have spent more time with Scott these days if he didn't always give him that pitying, guilt-ridden look. He still blamed himself for the accident. Nobody else blamed him, but Scott was a glutton for punishment. "Okay? Maybe it won't fix your voice but it won't hurt anymore." 

'I don't want to talk. I don't need to talk.' 

“There's a perfect example of how talking would help because I didn't understand _any_ of that.” 

Stiles groaned in frustration. As hard as Scott tried he just never picked up on sign language. Even Lydia admitted his skills were next to none, and though she didn't say it out loud she knew it was near hopeless. 

“I-,” Stiles winced as the sound ripped painfully from his vocal cords. It was barely a whisper but it stung like a shout. “I do-n't want t-oo.” He rubbed his throat, feeling the familiar sting deep down inside. It felt like swallowing hot sauce and angry bees all at the same time. The noise came out barely audible. What little sound he could make was a rasping, painful noise. He hated hearing it. Scott was one of the few people he was comfortable speaking in front of, but being comfortable didn't make him okay with it. 

“I know,” Scott said sympathetically. “But-” 

'Nothing. I don't want to talk.' Scott didn't need to understand his signs to understanding his meaning. 

“I'm sorry, Stiles,” the werewolves face fell a little. 

'Anything else?' he signed, ignoring the apology. 

Scott nodded, eager to drop the topic. “He told me it's possible for a werewolf to become blind if the wound or injury is bad enough it stops the healing process. He says it kinda depends on a lot of factors. He wants to check something out first, then he can tell you more about it.” 

'Thanks.' It wasn't really an answer to his question, but at least he knew it was _possible._ He knew it was a far cry to just assume someones a werewolf based on body temperature, but . . . he just got a strange vibe from Deucalion, something odd and misplaced. After a while he'd learned to trust his vibes. 

“Do you really think he might be a werewolf?”

'I have a feeling. No proof or anything.' Stiles sat back down in his desk chair. He looked at his mangled owl sculpture and crushed it back into a pile of lump gray clay. 

“So . . . what's with the . . . uhm, chickens, on your desk there?” Scott pointed to Stiles myriad of sculptures.

'Deuc,' he signed, hoping the simple explanation was enough. 

“You're sculpting? For that guy you think might be a werewolf? _Why_?” 

Stiles shrugged. He picked up the little figure Deucalion made for him, which had assumed a place of pride right next to his computer monitor and showed it to Scott. 

“Damn, that's really good.” Scott lifted up a finger to touch it, but Stiles was quick to move back. He didn't want anyone touching it, not even his best friend, lest it get broken. Scotts eyes flickered briefly over his own attempts at sculpting. “What's the deal with this guy? Why's he so special you’re going to all the effort?” 

'He sees me,' Stiles signed, it was the first thing that popped into his head. 

“Wait, I thought he was blind?” 

'Maybe it's not that he sees me. It's that he acknowledges me. When I'm around him I feel like a presence, I don't feel like a ghost, or like I'm stupid. When I'm with him I'm somebody, I'm Stiles, not just the mute guy. I don't want to lose that.' 

Scott frowned as his hands formed words in rapid succession. He waited for a response and received none. Scott gave a sheepish smile and asked him to repeat. 

“I'm sorry, you're just so fast at it.” He couldn't hate Scott, even if he wanted too he couldn't. He could see the guilt already pooling in his eyes. Reluctantly he typed the message out on his phone. 

Scotts face darkened the further he read into the message. “You're somebody to me. I don't look at you like a ghost.”

'No,' Stiles typed. 'You look at me like you don't understand.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hugs all* Thank you for all the nice comments and support n.n it warms my day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles friends have a mixed reaction to Deucalions presence.

Stiles pulled Deucalion into the coffee shop. He ducked his head and walked along to the far wall where the orders were set down for pickup. One of the regular cashiers waved to him and Stiles waved back. He snatched his coffee, bagel, and Deuc’s tea from the counter, giving a quick glance around. The cafe was busy, full of bustling patrons. No gorgeous redheads in sight.

“Lydia! Stiles is here!” The cashier shouted from behind the register. Stiles froze and started pushing Deuc towards the door. “He brought a friend with him!”

_No, no no no no, no,_ he thought. He loved Lydia, really, really loved her, but he didn't think Deuc would like her interrogation tactics very much.

“Stiles, you're going to make me fall down,” Deuc complained as he was roughly manhandled towards the exit. Stiles slowed his aggressive movements and cast a fearful look towards the bakery.

A flash of strawberry blonde hair descended upon them like a fiery hawk, talons bared.

“Stiles!” Lydia said in a lovely falsetto that disguised her annoyance well. She glowered at him. “This must be the new friend I've heard so much about.” Around her waist she wore a green apron, smeared with the remnants of flour and chocolate sauce. Her hands were still gloved and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Even with a trace of sweat forming on her brow she looked like she'd stepped out of the most recent _Homes and Gardens_ magazine.

Stiles swallowed guiltily, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Damn his addiction to caffeinated substances and fresh baked bagels. Lydia had ruined him. No other cafe would work to satiate his fix, and he should have known better than to try getting in and out without her noticing him.

“Hello?” Deuc greeted uncertainly. His hand was clasped tight around Stiles bicep.

“Hello, Mr. Deucalion.” Lydias voice was sweet and kind, nothing like the angry stares she was giving the mute boy before her. “My name is Lydia Martin. I own this establishment that Stiles was trying to sneak out of without saying hi.”

“Oh, you're the rocket-science pastry chef that Stiles has told me so much about? It's lovely to meet you, Ms. Martin. Stiles didn't tell me this was your cafe.” Now he had two sets of accusing eyes on him. Deuc squeezed his bicep lightly.

'Sorry!' Stiles mouthed to Lydia, unable to sign with the hot drinks in his hands. 'I didn't want to interrupt, you looked busy.” He motioned towards the long line of customers gathering around the registers. The cashiers moved back and forth between the pastry country, the coffee machines, and the registers so quickly it was amazing they didn't smack into each other.

“Oh, Stiles, I'm _never_ too busy for you,” she said pointedly. “Why don't I find the both of you a booth so we can sit and chat a little?”

'We're busy-'

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” Deuc tipped his head. “I can't exactly walk and drink at the same time, you understand,” he said, addressing Stiles, whose face flushed with the realization. He hadn't really thought about how Deucalion was going to sip his tea while holding onto his arm with one hand and the cane with the other.

“Great,” she flashed a glowing smile and whirled around on her heel, guiding them towards the back of the cafe. With a resentful sigh Stiles started to follow her, keeping his pace slow to match Deucalion’s. As they took their seats at a booth towards the very back of the cafe, almost hidden from view of the rest of the shop, Lydia grasped onto Stiles shirt and held him close. He clenched his eyes shut in fear.

“Just because you place an order online doesn't mean I don't know that it's you,” she hissed before releasing him. Stiles sulked down into his seat and set the drinks on the table.

'Sorry,' Stiles signed, giving her his strongest puppy dog look. 

She rolled her eyes and sat down across from them.

“So where are you two headed off to so early in the morning?” she asked, the smile returning to her painted lips.

“I asked Stiles to accompany me to the park. I love going, but it's not quite as fun without a companion. This is a beautiful smelling cafe. I'll have to get Stiles to describe it for me at some point.” Without needing to ask, he found his cup of tea on the table and took a small sip. “Wonderful tea, too.”

Lydia flipped her hair back nonchalantly, though Stiles could see a little smidgen of pride light in her eyes at the praise. Even after all this time she was still a sucker for flattery.

“Thank you, _Deucalion_ . . . That's a rather interesting name.” She tapped her painted finger against the table.

'Rude!' Stiles finger-spelled. He wanted to remind her of the handful of guys he'd held his tongue around while she dated them, namely Jackson. Even without a voice, he found it hard to not speak his complaints about most of them. He pulled his bagel from its carefully folded bag and nibbled at it a little before setting it down.

“It's not the one I was born with, if that's what you're asking.” Deuc didn't seem fazed as he took another sip of his drink. Underneath the table his hand found Stiles. Deuc lowered his cup as a little tint of pink went straight to Stiles ears. 

“So why'd you pick it?” Lydias eyes glanced over their arms, pressed close in the booth. Stiles knew later he'd be receiving a half dozen texts.

“I admired its uniqueness. I've always had an appreciation for unique things, like our Stiles here.” Deuc looked over at his companion. 

Stiles looked away in embarrassment. He'd been called unique before, but it was usually as an insult. He dealt with the fluttering in his heart by cramming more bagel into his mouth.

“Stiles _is_ very unique,” Lydia agreed, stealing a piece of bagel from Stiles’ plate and popping it into her mouth. “He has lots of friends, lots of friends who'd do anything to protect him.”The threat was subtle, but still there. If Deuc heard it at all he didn't react, merely chuckled.

“That wouldn't surprise me in the least. He's quite a friendly fellow.” Stiles picked off another piece of his bagel. Instead of discarding it alongside the rest of his deconstructed bread, he tapped Deuc lightly on the shoulder.

“Yes?” he asked. Stiles placed the bagel into his hand.

“Oh, why thank you,” Deuc smiled. He gently nibbled into the piece of bread in his hand. “This is very good. Do you make these bagels here, Ms. Martin?”

“Yes, I made them all myself. The recipe was my grandmother’s,” she said. Some of her hostility dropped. She tossed the lightly curled strand of red hair behind her shoulder.

“Ah, must have been a very determined woman. I've always admired a girl with ambition.”

Stiles smiled. He could see Lydias’ dislike  was quickly waning. He wanted her to like him, he desperately wanted her to like him, but she was protective of her friends, particularly when it came to men. The fact that Deuc might also be a werewolf struck her as a tad unappealing.

“Thank you,” she said airily. “I've always admired people who admire me.”

“So tell me,” Deuc leaned over the table slightly. “Do you have any interesting stories about Stiles that I should know? Things he won't tell me himself?” Stiles smacked Deucalion’s arm and earned a chuckle.

Lydia’s grimace turned into a sly smile. “Well . . .” she mused, an evil glint in her eye.

Stiles glared. ‘Tell him nothing! He signed with an angry jerk of his hands. He mouthed the words with a warning look in his eyes.

“He's _obsessed_ with his car. He loves it so much he's paying one of our friends to keep it parked for him. He just couldn't leave it behind in California. When he got accepted into the Academy we all wanted to take a plane, but he insisted on a roadtrip. He says its because its cheaper, but we all know he couldn't leave Rosco behind.”

“Rosco?”

“That’s the car’s name.”

“His car has a name?”

“Ooooh yes. A name, a personality, a brand loyalty to oil changes.” Lydia smirked traitorously. “He even pays our friend Danny to keep it parked at his place.”

'Rosco is a part of the family! We can't just leave him!' To Deuc he signed, 'I'm loyal to the core. Leave no man, woman, child, or trusty vehicle behind!'

Something about that made Deucalion’s smile widen. “You are such an amazing boy, you know that?”

“Amazing, obsessive, hyperactive, but sweet,” Lydia said as she stole a piece of bagel from Stiles’ plate. Stiles didn't have the heart to smack her hand away.

“Thank you for sharing, Ms. Martin,” said Deucalion as he took a final sip of his tea, “but my tea is finished and Stiles’ bagel has been eviscerated, so I believe we should be on our way.” Deucalion stood and offered Stiles his hand. Stiles quickly shoved the rest of his food into his mouth and took the offered palm, which made his skin tingle with warmth.

“Stiles told me the two of you were going on a date. Anywhere fun?” Stiles shot Lydia another glare.

“We're going for a walk, nothing too exciting, but I think I could do without all the excitement, and as long as Stiles is with me, I won't have to worry about any dangerous potholes. Right, Stiles?”

Stiles grinned and gave a thumbs up.

“It was lovely meeting you, Ms. Martin,” said Deuc, tipping his head down in acknowledgment.

“You can call me Lydia,” the shop owner said, letting her lips curl into a sort of smile. Apparently Deuc had passed the friend test.

Lydia smiled at them. As they passed out the door she whispered quietly in his ear, “He's good for you, I approve.” Stiles couldn't wipe the grin from his face.

'Is a walk really all that fun for you?' Stiles signed as they rounded the corner of the coffee shop and passed into a less traveled street.

“I might not be able to see new sights, but I can still hear new sounds and smell new scents.” Deuc looked down at him, behind the sunglasses Stiles saw a faint wink. “And it gives me an excuse to hold your hand.”

Stiles laughed. The sound came out as a rasp, low and soft as a whisper but guttural and pained like a chain smoker’s cough. Stiles shut his mouth and clasped his hands over it. The first thing he noticed when he went mute was his inability to vocalize above a whisper. He was selfconscious about anything related to his voice, but especially his nails-on-chalkboard laugh.

Deucalion looked at him. “Is that what you sound like? Did you make that noise?”

Stiles looked down at his hands. “. . . Y-es-s.” His voice was a rasp, a nails on chalkboard scratch mixed with the hiss of a cat. He sounded like his vocal cords had been through a paper shredder twice. Making the noise was embarrassing and painful. Deaton said the more he talked the less painful it would be, but Stiles couldn't bring himself to. Even in private, the thought of what his voice once has been made him sad and the disgusted winces of his friends made him feel worse.

“Well that's not bad at all.”

'I sound like I ate a paper shredder.'

“My eyes look like I got stabbed with a flash bang.” Deucalion winked. “It's not the most important part of me, your voice isn't the most important part of you. By now you should know I won't judge you for your oddities. I find them rather endearing. Will you . . . will you tell me what happened to your voice?”

'Will you tell me what happened to your eyes?' He was willing to make that trade, and no other one. Deuc’s face darkened and his grip on Stiles’ hand tensed for a moment.

“Another time, perhaps I will,” he mused.

'Sorry. I ruined things.'

“Hardly.” Deucalion waved him off. “I'm pleased to have learned a little more about you, my enigmatic young friend. You're still coming to my class tomorrow, aren't you?”

Stiles nodded. 'I've been practicing!' he announced proudly, some of his shame disappearing underneath the new wave of enthusiasm. He would impress the potential werewolf yet.

“You've been practicing? I'm glad to know that, Stiles. Shame we're painting tomorrow.” Stiles stiffened. “Did you forget we were painting?” Stiles shook his head frantically.

'No! I remembered.'

Deucalion chuckled. “Of course you did. Well, we'll have some time at the end of class to start a new sculpture if you wish.”

'My owl will be perfect!'

“I'm sure it will be. After we finish painting, we're learning turtles.”

'You're doing this on purpose!'

They arrived back to the small section of street that Deucalion called home just as the moon replaced the sun in the sky. Deucalion took hold of both Stiles’ hands once more. Although instead of kissing his knuckles, he planted a kiss softly against Stiles’ mouth. His lips cracked into a wide grin that broke their kiss in an instant and Deucalion pulled back with a chuckle.

“I will see you tomorrow, Stiles.”

'Tomorrow,' Stiles agreed. He danced a jig on the sidewalk.

*

When he arrived home, Scott was sitting on his bed.

“Thank god you're alright,” Scott said, leaping up from the mattress and pulling his brother into a warm hug. He stuck his nose against Stiles’ jugular and inhaled his scent.

'What happened?' Stiles signed after he managed to wiggle free from Scott’s hold. 'I'm okay. I was with Deuc.'

“That's the problem,” Scott said seriously. “Deaton finally got back to me. He said Deucalion is dangerous. Stiles, you need to stay away from him.”

Stiles blinked. 'Deucalion, the blind art teacher, Deucalion? The one who sculpts owls and hangs out with a mute kid?'

“He wasn't always blind. Deaton told me that a long time ago Deucalion came to his clinic with his eyes completely burnt. He said a hunter stabbed him with flash bang arrows.” Stiles winced. “After treating him, he left him alone with one of his betas. When he came back, the beta was ripped to shreds on the floor and Deucalion was nowhere to be found. His pack tried looking for him, but nobody ever saw him again. They assumed he went feral and died.”

'Deuc’s been nothing but nice to me. He wouldn't hurt anybody.' Stiles grimaced. He just couldn't imagine the gentle soul who held his hand and kissed his knuckles would use those very same hands to slice open another being.

Scott patted his shoulder sympathetically. “I know he's your friend, but you've still got me, Lydia, and Danny. You don't need anyone else.” His smile was weak.

'No,' Stiles shook his head. 'Deuc wouldn't hurt me.'

“Please, Stiles, just let me take care of it.”

'Take care of it how? Are you planning to kill him?' Stiles glared. 'He's done nothing wrong!'

“We don't know that. He could be dangerous and don't you think it's a little strange that your brand new friend just _happens_ to be a werewolf? You helped him avoid a puddle and now he wants to spend all of his time with you and include you in everything?”

'What are you suggesting?' Stiles’ signs were stiff with anger, he had trouble uncurling his fingers from each and every letter.

“That maybe it's not you he's trying to get close to.” Scott ducked his head and looked up at him with that guilty, pitying expression.

Stiles barked a bitter laugh, one he wasn't ashamed to express in front of Scott. Scott winced at the sharp, discordant noise. 'Oh, so the only reason someone would want to be friends with me is so they could get at you? Is that how you feel?' He could see Scott’s eyes struggling to trace the patterns he formed in the air. Halfway through his message he just gave up and dropped his hands to his side.

“Stiles, your hands are moving too fast again.”

“We-eell he's blind and he-ee doesn't have trouble following along with m-e!” It would have been a shout if his vocal cords could move that way. He felt so pathetically quiet in his mewling cry.

Scott winced. “I'm sorry, Stiles. I just want to protect you.”

“G-et off your h-high horse! There are plenty of o-other people who would make friends with the m-mute kid!” He rubbed his throat as the strain started to ache.

“He killed his beta, Stiles!”

“That’s what Deaton thinks happened, but no one saw it. I'll talk to him, I'll find out-”

“I don't think that's a good idea. He-”

'You beg me to talk and then you don't listen!'

“I'm not trying to take a friend from you, Stiles. I just don't want anything bad to happen to you! If I hadn't let you go into the woods by yourself, than maybe-”

“Maybe somebody else would have gotten hurt, somebody who didn't know enough m-magic to make it to the Nemeton and live. I lived, and I don't resent that fact.”

“Are you just je-alous? Is that the issue? I can have other f-friends, Scott.”

“We don't know that he's your friend, I just . . . I just want you to let me meet him so I can feel safe leaving you alone with him.”

“I can make my o-own decisions.”

“Stiles-”

“Please leave, Scott.”

“Just promise me that you'll be safe.”

“Goodbye, Scott.” Stiles turned his back to the alpha werewolf and glared at his wall. He heard his window slide open and Scott step out onto the fire escape. He wondered if Scott could smell the tears as they dripped down his cheeks.

*

Scott’s words wouldn't leave his mind. They pierced his heart like a flaming arrow and destroyed what little esteem that had managed to flower there. Why would Deuc want him? The annoying mute kid who talked too much even without a voice.

He met Deucalion on the steps of his studio. He couldn't bring himself to look up into the older man’s eyes, not until he heard his voice so soft and concerning.

“Stiles? Are you alright? You sme- you seem sad. Tell me what's troubling you, dear boy.” Deuc reached his hand out and lightly wiped away one of his tears with his thumb. Stiles wiped the rest away on the back of his sleeve.

'I have to ask you a question,' he signed, seizing Deuc’s hands tightly. 'Important question.'

“Oh,” Deuc frowned. “Well, ask away. I'm an open book,” he smiled softly and it fractured another piece of Stiles’ heart.

'Are you a werewolf?' he asked. He needed to fingerspell the last word, but Deuc’s hands tightened as soon as he finished 'were.'

Deuc looked down at him, his face grew stoney and cold. His hands tensed. His lips pursed together. Stiles half expected to see his eyes turn blazing red and fangs to jut from his mouth.

“I should have known you were too smart for me,” he said sadly after a minute had passed between them. His words were spoken in a whisper that Stiles had to strain to hear. “What smart, enigmatic, beautiful young creature like yourself would want to spend time with an old, blind, art teacher?” Deuc’s face lifted into a smile that wasn't at all genuine. “How many hunters did you bring with you?”

Stiles started. 'No hun-' Deuc pulled his hands away. He shook his head.

“Don't lie, Stiles. It's unbecoming of you.” He allowed his hands to be reclaimed by Stiles. This time his efforts to pull away were pitifully weak.

“It's a shame, I was really starting to fall for you, you know? Are there any alphas or betas outside, waiting to kill me? I've smelled them on you before, but it was always faint, I thought maybe you just lived near one or frequently passed them in the street.”

'Look,' he beseeched. 'Look.' Deucalion didn't. Behind the glasses, his eyes stayed white and misted. Desperate, Stiles leaned up and kissed him solidly on the cheek.

Deucalion seemed surprised.

“You know, in biblical times, Judas-” Stiles leaned up further and pressed his lips to Deuc’s mouth. Against his hand, he signed a single, four letter word.

'Love,' he signed as he kissed him forcefully. 'Love.'

Deucalion froze. Then his hands pulled from Stiles once more and he pulled him closer, kissing him sweet and tender. He had to drop his cane on the ground to do it properly.

“It doesn't bother you?” Deuc muttered quietly against the younger humans lips.

Stiles shook his head. 'I don't care what you are. Just who you are.'

“And I, you,” Deuc muttered. His hand grazed lightly over the side of Stiles’ cheeks. He planted a kiss once more over Stiles’ puffy lips. “I think maybe I should cancel class for tonight.”

*

Waking up in the bed of a werewolf wasn't anything like Stiles had imagined. It wasn't the rough, brutal, domination he'd expected. He was bruised, but that was mostly from his own over enthusiasm than Deucalion’s, who had wanted to savor the sweet moment. He left a light trail of kisses up Stiles’ throat and over his collar bone. He didn't wolf out at all, only once when Stiles moaned a little too loudly did his eyes flash red and he let out a growl of pride. He didn't even flinch when his moan sounded more like a rasp.

Deucalion’s arm was still wrapped around his waist and a light layer of sweat clung to both their foreheads. Stiles lifted his head and looked around. He'd barely paid attention to the small apartment’s decor before they'd made their shuffling, awkward way to the bed.

The walls were a cream color, with very few personal possessions marking the space. There were no family photos, or paintings lining the walls. There were plenty of elaborate sculptures prominently displayed on the shelves and tables, and a surprising amount of books which greatly overwhelmed Stiles’ tiny collection at home. He wondered if any of the old, worn looking things were a bestiary of sorts, similar to the one he had in a PDF file back at his dorm.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Deucalion said softly, shifting up from the bed. His eyes were half lidded in sleepy bliss. “Sleep well?”

Stiles moved back and signed his hello.

“You're back to not vocalizing, hm?” He sat up with a yawn and rubbed at his eyes. Stiles did the same.

'You're back to being blind,' he pointed out.

Deuc sighed and his blue eyes melted into red. “I can't hold this shape for very long. It's become strenuous.” He took in the human’s appearance and smiled. “I was right; you are beautiful.”

“M-my hair is,” Stiles stuttered over his words for a second, waiting for Deuc to crinkle his nose or cringe at the rasping noise that escaped him. Again, he didn't. “It's covered in sweat. I'm d-isgus-ting.”

“So am I,” Deuc chuckled. “Fancy getting less disgusting together? My shower’s probably large enough to fit the two of us.”

Stiles grinned.


	5. Chapter 5

“N-no,” Stiles said, wincing as the pressure of speaking up. “Let me make breakfast.” It came out in a rasping whisper. The shower had been nice at least, the warm steam soothed his vocal cords back to tolerable. 

“Oh? Here now I thought you survived solely on Ms. Lydias' bagels,” Deucs' lips curled up into a smile. 

“My c-cooking is a lot bet-ter than my sculpting, I pr-omise.” 

“Tentatively, I will choose to believe you.” Deucalion moved away from the fridge and allowed Stiles to take his place. 

He pulled out some milk, eggs, flour, and everything else he needed to make the best pancakes in the world. Within twenty minutes he plated two golden brown stacks on the table. Living in a dorm had deprived him of the joys of a stove for so long that he probably made a few more than he needed too. He took the extra time to carefully arrange the stacks on each plate, realizing only as he set one in front of Deuc that his effort would go unnoticed. 

“It smells good,” Deuc said, almost as a question. He poked his fork into the pancake gently, as if he thought it might explode. He leaned down so his nose almost touched the pastry and sniffed at the fluffy mound of butter and syrup. Stiles chewed his lip all the while, his own fork gripped tightly in his hand.

“Oh, calm down, Stiles. It's not like we're on some reality show. I won't criticize you for it.” The man smiled lightly and took a bite of the pancake. His face lit up with delight. 

“These are delicious.” He dug his fork in again and took another bite. 

“Thank y-ou,” Stiles said. Pride filled the spaces in his broken voice. “My m-mom taught me how to co-ook when I was l-little.” 

“She must be a wonderful lady.” 

“Was.” Stiles frowned. “She passed away.” 

“Oh, I'm very sorry to hear that.” 

“It's okay. It was a l-long time ago. She probably would have liked you, she was an artist t-oo.” 

Deuc smiled a little. “I'm guessing you took after your father?” 

Stiles made another rasping gasp of a laugh, but just like before the noise didn't bother him. He winced a little at the sudden sound, but soon he regained his composure. 

'Clearly,' Stiles signed as the strain of using his voice became too much.

* 

Painting apparently wasn't in his skill sets either. His hands were just too fidgety to be good at anything that required deftness. At least Deucalion couldn't tell his painting was as bad as his sculpting. 

“How is it going for you?” Deucalion asked as he walked past his station. 

'Good. Great. I am the best at this.' At his feet sat a small bag of more than a dozen owl sculptures he'd created in his room. They were still poorly created, with chicken legs and duck bills. He couldn't decide which one was the best to give, so he decided on all of them. Whichever one Deuc liked could be kept, and the rest shoved in a dark corner of his closet. 

The older man chuckled and pulled his hands back from Stiles. “I don't doubt that, but painting with your brush instead of your fingers might be helpful.” Stiles looked down at his hands, which were practically coated in red and blue paint. 

'Sorry,' he signed sheepishly. In the process smudging more paint onto Deucalions' hands. 

'Oh, Stiles,” Deucalion said. He chuckled and wiped his hand on the towel hanging over the edge of the station. He hovered around Stiles desk more than usual. His students gave him wary looks now and again. Each time he passed he gave him light touches on his shoulders, head, and the nape of his neck. It was a form of scent marking Stiles hadn't experienced from anyone other than Scott, and Scotts' had always been so protective and big brotherly. In the days since his accident he'd gotten more aggressive about constantly being in contact with his less durable packmate. 

_Oh, right, Scott_. He bit his lip and accidentally let the brush slip again and poke his poor little owl in the eye with unnecessary force. How was he going to tell Scott that the supposed 'evil alpha' was now more than just friends with him? 

Deucalion felt the tension rising in his shoulders. “Something the matter?” he asked. 

'I'll tell you about it later,' Stiles said. 'Right now I'd rather not think about it.' 

“Does it have anything to do with your surprise?” Deuc motioned towards the brown paper bag sitting on the edge of the desk. The one Stiles insisted on running home to get. 

'No! I'm not ruining the surprise either. We have to wait until class is over.' 

Deuc sighed unhappily. “Ah, well, if you insist.” 

The wolf went back to checking on each and every one of his students progress. Even so, Stiles still refused to even slightly nudge the brown paper bag on his desk. He knew what werewolf ears could pick up on, and the sound of a motley of strangely shaped owls was certainly something Deuc would recognize. He'd carefully wrapped each individual one in a paper towel to prevent them from crushing each other inside the bag.

As he looked at it, he started to wonder if it was really a good idea. Maybe Deuc wouldn't find the owls sweet, but stalkerish? Maybe he'd think the gesture was stupid. His house was already decorated in his own, perfectly crafted creations. Why would he need those of an amateur?

On his next round across the classroom Deuc leaned in close to his ear. “Now that you know of my condition, I don't mind telling you that your heartbeat is worryingly fast. You're not about to pull any wolfsbane on me, are you?” 

Stiles opened his mouth to rebuff the sentiment, but when he met the weres eyes his mouth was smiling. Stiles relaxed. 

'Sorry, just thinking about something.' 

“Are you going to tell me what that something is?” 

'No. You'll find out soon.' 

Deuc frowned. “Well, you're not lying about that. Tell me what colors you painted your owl,” the man prodded, placing his hand down upon Stiles shoulder. 

'Can't you use your eyes to see?' 

Deuc smiled. “It's strenuous, as I told you. Plus, I believe I mentioned that I liked getting to hold your hand.” 

Stiles chuckled and placed his palm against the werewolves. Slowly he signed the colors against his skin. 

“Red and blue? Is that supposed to mean something symbolic?” 

Stiles shook his head. 'No. It's just the only color I didn't have to mix.' 

Deuc grinned. “You are beautiful,” he said, giving Stiles a small kiss to the forehead. As he leaned in for the kiss his hands hovered towards the bag. Stiles quickly smacked them away. 

'No,' he repeated firmly. 

Resigned to the mystery Deuc sulked from the station, though he kept giving the human in the corner quick, curious stares. As the class ended and they day finally drew to a close Deuc was eagerly back at his side again. For once it was the older of the pair acting like an excitable puppy. 

“I don't like surprises, Stiles,” he said unhappily. “Let me see what you’ve brought.” He sat down on the bench beside Stiles and held his hands out like a child hoping to receive a present. 

Stiles bit his lip, then he pushed the bag over to him.

'I couldn't pick which one was best. I just thought I'd let you decide. You don't have to keep them if you don't want.' 

The werewolf took off his sunglasses and reached into the bag, He pulled out the first of many wrapped clay figures and carefully unpeeled it from its protective coating. His thumb brushed over the almost-an-owls nose. This one had a large split down the middle from where it hadn't settled right. Its body was just a fat, pear-shaped blob. 

“This is your . . .?” the sentence trailed. 

“I tried to make a better one,” Stiles said quietly. “I didn't do a very good job.”

Deuc placed the figure delicately onto the table, much more delicately than a half-cracked, broken thing deserved. He pulled out the next figure and unwrapped that one just as carefully. Over the course of the next several minutes, he took each one out of the bag and examined them, each awkward and unique in its own way. 

He peered at the little clay creations with an unreadable expression. 

“I don't have to wonder anymore,” he said quietly, gently running his finger over the beak of a particularly floppy owl. That one hadn't dried properly either and came out more cracks than clay, but its body shape was at least decent. “At the risk of saying it so soon- I am absolutely in love with you, Stiles. I just really, really adore you.” 

Stiles' heart fluttered. 'Why?!' he signed. Then, still confused, signed it over, and over, and over again. Deucalion laughed. 

“You're just so full of fear, worry, anxiety, but you shove it all aside and put your best into everything,” he looked over at the human, the clay figure held so tenderly in his hands. “I can always hear your heart beating so loud, sometimes I worry you'll faint, but you don't. You do what you want despite it all. The worlds taken so much from you, but you still give what little you have. Stiles, I adore you.”Deuc finished, with a loving smile on his lips. For a second his eyes shone red. Stiles willingly leaned closer and placed his lips on the alpha werewolves.

Deuc placed the figure back on the table and wrapped his arms around him. His hands found their resting place on his hips. Stiles jerked away when the hands on his waist turned sharp and dug into his skin. When he opened his eyes Deuc was no longer starring at him, but at the door with his lips lifted up in a snarl. 

“What's wrong?” Stiles rasped out. 

“Stay quiet. Stay behind me. Someones coming closer. A wolf. I don't recognize them.” Red bled into his eyes as they locked on to the classroom door. 

The knob slowly turned in place. The door unlocked, and then it swung open. 

“Scott?” Stiles wheezed when he saw his brunette brother standing in the doorway. 

Scotts' eyes flashed an equal shade of crimson. He was already in a half shift, his teeth barring fangs the same as Deucs own.

'Scott! What do you want?' he signed, but Scott didn't even look at him. 

“I'm here to give you a warning,” his friend said with narrowed eyes. 

Deuc stood up from where he sat and positioned himself between the two boys. 

Stiles followed him and grasped tightly onto his hand. 

Deuc squeezed it back. The points of his nails were clawed. 

“I don't know who you are,” Deuc said calmly, “but I'm not afraid to defend myself.”

'Deuc, he's my friend,' Stiles tried to explain. 

“I don't want to fight you,” he said. “I just came to warn you.” 

“Because I'm blind? Is that the pesky moral struggle you're dealing with? Either fight the blind man or risk your friend getting hurt,” Deucalion hummed. It was a tone Stiles hadn't heard him use before, it was cold and calculated.

“Do not hurt Stiles,” Scott said with a growl. His claws flicked out in front of him. Stiles could feel the thin layer of hair growing underneath Deucs skin.

“Dear, Scott, I am much older than you, and much more experienced. I haven't done anything to your friend, nor do I intend to. Please step away, and let us enjoy our evening.” 

Stiles looked between his best friend, and his probable boyfriend. Both eyes were red and poised to strike. Stiles' heart felt like a jackhammer in his chest. 

Scott didn't let up on his aggressive stance. He crossed his arms over his chest and took another step forward. “I don't know what you've told him, but I know it isn't true. You _killed_ your beta.” 

Deucalion paused. His shoulders tensed. The red drained from his eyes and he was left with the dark, milky blue that Stiles had come to appreciate. 

“That is true,” Deuc said, facing Stiles. “I did kill him, but it wasn't I who made the first strike. He thought our pack would be stronger without me in the way, so he attacked me. I was . . . distraught. I never thought a pack member would betray me that way, and so I came here, to get away from that. I've been living peacefully ever since.”

Scott wasn't swayed. “I'm just supposed to believe you just _happened_ on another wolf pack?”

“In a city like New York? Yes.” Deuc looked down at Stiles. He looked up into the red eyes in a silent plea. “I think if you'd bother to ask your friend you'd learn that he happened on me, and I'm glad that he did.” Deucs' hand squeezed his tightly. He turned back to Scott. 

“If you came here for a fight you will get one. I might be a little rusty, but I think I'll manage.” He pulled his cane from its resting place leaning against the table. With he pulled the top off to reveal the sharp point of a blade. The blade glowed underneath the fluorescent lights of the classroom. 

Scott eyed it cautiously. “I won't let you hurt my friend.” 

“Seriously?” Stiles wheezed. Reverting to sign, 'you're trying to protect me but you don't care enough to listen to what I want!' Scotts' eyes flicked to his hands but left before the message was completed. It was obvious he didn't get it. His eyes were too focused on the unsheathed cane. Likewise, Deuc was glaring at the intruding wolf. 

Stiles grabbed the elder wolves free hand and signed into them as quickly, and efficiently as he could. He fumbled some signs here and there in his agitation, but Deucalion seemed to get the message. He looked down at Stiles, really looked at him. His black pupils zeroed in on the boy at his side. 

“It's alright,” he said calmly. “I can see you now, Stiles. I understand what you want.” Stiles stopped signing. He leaned up and kissed Deucalion solidly on the lips, hoping it would get the message across to Scott. 

“Our friend doesn't want us to fight,” Deuc translated. He lowered his blade and recapped the tip. “I don't want to upset him. Do you?” 

Scott watched Stiles cuddle closer to the older werewolf with an apprehensive frown. 

“I didn't come here to fight you,” he said after a second. “I just came to warn you.” 

“I have no interest in taking your pack, or your life,” Deuc said, wrapping his arm around Stiles waist. 

“Not about that. I wanted to warn you to take care of Stiles. I don't want to see him get hurt.” 

“That makes two of us.”


	6. Chapter 6

The sound of the GPS guided Stiles far out of New York City and into the dense wilderness of the state. 

He kept casting anxious glances back at his silent companion, but Deuc only smiled and starred out the window. It felt good to driving his old, faithful jeep again. He missed the rattle and rumbling groans of the car as it clunked its way down the streets. 

When they came to a stoplight he patted Deuc on the shoulder. 

“It's a surprise, Stiles. Don't you like surprises?” He sat with his hands folded on his lap and his cane in the backseat. 

Stiles scoffed. The stoplight didn't afford him enough time to answer the question, but he made a mental note to explain – at length - exactly how much he hated surprises, just as soon as their impromptu road trip came to an end. They passed by open stretches of farm land, until finally they hit a forest that was oddly reminiscent of the preserve back in Beacon Hills.

“Keep going here, then turn onto the dirt trail. Your car can handle a dirt trail, correct? It doesn't feel like it can.” Deuc tentatively knocked on the car door with his knuckles. 

Stiles huffed and pulled onto the trail. He really hated only being able to talk with his hands. Of course his jeep could handle a dirt trail, Rosco could do _anything_. Except keep the gas bill under forty. Deuc didn't need to know about that. 

The trail only stretched for about a mile or so before it turned into a large clearing. Seeing no more road ahead Stiles came to a stop and pulled the key from the ignition. 

'You wanted to show me a forest? No offense, but I've seen those before,' he signed. 

Deuc chuckled. “Not the forest, no. I hope you're prepared for a hike.” 

Stiles groaned, but he hopped out of the car and raced over to the other side to help Deucalion out as well. 

“Why aren't you gentlemanly,” Deuc said with a soft smile. He took Stiles hand and hopped from the vehicle. They wound their hands together with Deuc leading the way. 

'Where are we going?' Stiles asked again. 

“To my favorite place in the world. You will like it, trust me.” 

* 

“Will you tell me what happened to your voice?” asked Deucalion. 

They sat underneath a large willow tree, facing a waterfall that cascaded down the cliff face and into a small stream. Deucs hand rested on his hip. 

“You don't have too, not if you don't want.” He wasn't wearing his sunglasses like usual. It was refreshing to be able to see his very emotive eyes, even robbed of their vision. The milk-white irises settled on his face and waited patiently. 

Stiles bit his lip. 'It was . . .' he hesitated. He took one of the wolves hands and spread his fingers out so their form was clawed and curled like a cats. He raised it up to his throat, to where the faint, barely visible outline of a scar covered his flesh. Deaton did his best to remove the mark, but there was only so much medicine and magic could accomplish.

Deucs eyes darkened. “A wolf did this to you?” They flashed blood red.

Stiles nodded and released his hand. 

“R-rogue omega.” It was getting easier by the day to talk without hurt. His voice was still quiet and meek, but he was growing used to hearing the sound, and Deuc never shamed him for his squeaks and rasps. Sometimes he would get startled if the sound he made was sudden or piercing, but he never pitied him for it. 

“How are you still human? A cut that deep should have . . . “ 

“I'm-m not sure. The druid said the nemeton k-ept me alive. I don't know why the scratch d-didn't turn me. Deaton said it might be s-something like how banshees can't be turned by a werewolves bite, maybe its something I have in my g-nes, or maybe it's because I still h-had the nemeton in my veins. It kind of sucks though, the bite might have fixed my v-oice.” 

Deuc took in his words with care. He reached over and reclaimed his hands with his own. He thumbed over Stiles knuckles and looked back to the waterfall he couldn't see, but he loved the sound. 

“I would never try to fix you. You were never broken. You came into my life happy, healthy, and full of energy. You were quiet but only in tone, not in action. You are perfect just the way you are.” 

Stiles hesitated. 'I wasn't happy. I was invisible. I was forgettable.'

“Stiles, you are a far cry from forgettable. You are one of the most interesting people I've ever met, and if there are at least two people who would move cross country just to be with you, then I'm sure there are a thousand more that wish they could have.” 

Stiles eyes watered. He wiped his eyes quickly on his sleeve, but the wolf had already smelt them the second they filled his eyes. 

“Now, you smell like salt,” Deucalion said. “I'm sorry if I made you cry.” 

Stiles shook his head. “Don't be. H-ow did you find this place?” he asked, motioning towards the waterfall. He squeezed Deucs' hand. 

“Ah,” his face fell a little. “Well, I suppose after you were kind enough to answer my question, I owe you an answer too, hm?” 

'Only if you want too,” Stiles signed. 

Deuc sighed. “I will tell only because it's you.

“When my beta attacked me I felt so very lost. It was the first time I'd ever felt such betrayal – first from the hunter who blinded me – and then from my very own pack. My mind sort of snapped, in a way. When my beta died I felt his power coursing through my hands and for a second I wanted to give in. I wanted to kill the rest and take their strength as well. But I couldn't. I couldn't destroy the lives of those that I had created. So I ran instead.” The werewolves eyes grew distant as he was taken back by his memories. 

Stiles leaned his head against Deucs shoulder in comfort. 

Deuc smiled weakly down at him. 

“I felt so lonely, without my pack and my home. When I finally clawed back control of my own mind this is where I was, surrounded by the trees and the streams. It is a beautiful place. When I got my bearings I settled down in New York because it was the most populated area I could think of, there was no way I would be lonely there. I lived here for five years and never felt close to anybody. My students only wanted my skills, and the other teachers . . . well . . . I think they felt burdened by the blind man. No one said anything of course, but, it's easy enough to pick up on. Then I met you.” 

'You met me,' Stiles signed. 

Deuc laughed. “I did. You were so sweet and excited. You didn't care that I was blind. You didn't talk, but I had no problem understanding what it was you wanted to say. You were hardly forgettable, or invisible. You were surrounded by interesting people, even without your voice you still had friends, you still had a pack. I just wanted to be part of it.” 

“You are part of it,” Stiles rasped. “I care about you. A lot.” 

'I love you,' Deuc signed. 

“I love you,” Stiles rasped. He leaned up and kissed him sweetly on the cheek.

Deuc chuckled and faced him again. Their foreheads leaned together. Two eyes stared into a pair that couldn't see. A pair of lips pressed against a mouth that moved and made no sound. It didn't matter, for what the other could not do the other would gladly take their place. Together they were complete, and they were happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Thank you all so much for reading n.n *huggles*


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